


sunrising

by miss_belivet



Category: Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013), Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Older Woman, Suggestive Themes, Themyscira (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:06:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_belivet/pseuds/miss_belivet
Summary: There must be something in the water on Themyscira to make her so bold and reckless.





	sunrising

“I know of a place where she cannot be found.”

Martha has to bite her tongue when the entire Justice League’s attention snaps to the impossibly tall Amazon who has materialized behind her. If it weren’t for the gentle hand on her shoulder before Diana spoke up, Martha is fairly certain she would be convulsing on the floor in cardiac arrest from the shock of it, too.

“Sneak-attacked by an Amazon princess” _would_ be the cherry on top of her horrible day, wouldn't it?

But, evidently, Clark finds whatever he’s looking for in Diana’s serious expression—or perhaps it’s the casual hand on her hip that convinces him, resting atop a glowing, golden rope that looks far too fine to be anything a born-and-bred farmgirl like Martha would consider using as a lasso.

“Okay... Okay.” Clark’s shoulders slump. Martha opens her mouth to remind them all that she’s a grown woman, Superman’s _mother,_ until he turns those big, blue eyes on her and says, “Sound good, Ma?”

Martha purses her lips and says, “I don’t like it.”

But the creeping heat on her neck hints that Diana can tell that she kind-of, sort-of _does_ like it. After all, Clark is safer when he’s not distracted by her wellbeing, and when Superman can keep his head in the fight the whole League is safer, too.

(And some of them are just so damn _young_ that Martha can't bring herself to risk it.)

When Martha glances back at Diana, she’s peering back into her face, brow furrowed. And, even when she’s looking down a good foot to meet Martha’s gaze, Diana holds her chin high and her shoulders back, showing off every inch of warm, tan muscle that her armor doesn’t bother to hide. Martha herself, in her broken-in Levi’s and a wrinkled button-down, knows she must look like her exact opposite: modest bordering on insecure, anxious bordering on terrified, a tough stone facade with hairline cracks threatening to make the whole thing crumble at any moment.

To be honest, she’s had enough daring rescues for one lifetime in the four years since Clark became Superman. She’s happy for the chance to escape the fallout.

So she gives up the fight before it begins with a sigh and a shrug. “But alright, baby. Just let me get my things.”

She just hopes she’s not condemning herself to a summer spent on some other planet. Thirty years after plucking a baby from a spaceship, she’s still a bit nauseous to think it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

 

* * *

 

“You’re staring, Martha Kent.”

Martha startles, the toe of her sandal catching on the uneven cobblestone pavement, and her companion’s strong, tanned arm shoots out to catch her before she falls.

“Um,” she says, blinking stupidly in the bright sunshine that reflects back into her eyes off the arm’s wide silver cuff.

“Do you see something interesting?” the owner of the arm asks. Her voice is casual and coolly genial, like it has been since Martha first arrived on the island, but something in the way she says it gives away a bit of amused curiosity.

Martha, to be entirely honest, doesn’t think she _can_ respond. Between the original sight that made her stumble and the hard body still wrapped around her own— _so long, it’s been so long, don’t think about it, don’t look at her_ —her mouth has dried up and gone cottony.

Still, there are only so many places to look on a narrow back road. Since arriving, she has been firmly encouraged to stop keeping her eyes glued modestly to the ground in front of her feet by no less than four pitying Amazons, but she still can’t figured out where her eyes should be, if not on the road.

And it’s hard, when the Amazons give her so many flat-out weird options.

An Amazon with long auburn hair tied up in strips of yellow linen sways atop her horse, her breasts uncovered and unbound.

Free-roaming albino peacocks peck at foliage, and occasionally a more intrepid goat, where the road meets the forested mountainside.

A towering warrior queen in furs and leathers—in _August_ , no less—slows her long stride to match the pace Martha’s short legs set and catches her when she falls.

It all prompts her to think something like, _Forget Krypton, the aliens are on Themyscira,_ but the thought is only half-formed when the bicep beside her cheek flexes.

“Ah, yes. Artemis is striking, isn’t she?”

Martha tears her eyes away from the sculpted muscles in front of her eyes, and she’s horrified to see that Hippolyta followed her traitorous gaze to the redhead.

Not the peacocks. Not the goats. Not her own, stupidly toned arms.

But Artemis.

Shirtless Artemis, with her back as tempting and attractive as her front, a sight which prompts Martha to wonder, _If that’s what a half-naked Amazon looks like, what does a half-naked Amazon_ queen _look like?_

Martha doesn’t have a lot of experience with women—she lived in Smallville, where it just wasn’t _done,_ not even in 2018. Still, she knows expressions well enough to tell that Hippolyta, behind that practiced, regal exterior, is displeased.

No, not displeased, Martha realizes with a silly grin.

Hippolyta’s _eyes_ are on Artemis, but her _attention_ is on Martha.

Her attention makes Martha feel a bit like she did when she was still an inexperienced high-school girl watching boys nervously prepare to ask her and her friends to the prom, giddy and anxious in a way that makes her stomach somersault. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, but a bracing one. She was never blind to the allure of women, even back then, but she has never dared to act on those feelings before now. Honestly, though, her life can’t get any stranger, so she takes the opportunity presenting itself by the horns.

(Even as she opens her mouth, her mind is reeling and trying to catch up to the reality that she is daring to act now, so many years after she first saw a pretty girl smile and felt her heartbeat skip.)

She is certain that Hippolyta can tell she’s up to something when her tall, hard body tenses in response to the way Martha cranes her neck to look her in the eyes.

“Are you _jealous,_ Your Majesty?”

There.

She said it.

And there must be something in the water on Themyscira to make her so bold and reckless, but she _likes_ that she said it. She likes the way this legendary woman flushes and takes the bait. She likes the way Hippolyta’s arm tightens around her waist. She likes the way her dazzlingly blue eyes find hers, pupils blown with desire, even though her expression is calculating.

“And if I am, little one?”

Martha shivers. She thinks maybe the term of endearment should feel belittling, but Hippolyta’s deep, confident accent strips away the childish connotations and leaves her feeling pleasantly delicate instead—a precious thing, meant to be held tenderly and cherished.

“I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Martha loses track of time after that.

Diana returns with the sunrise one morning in late autumn—though Martha would never be able to tell by the lush, green trees and the warm breeze coming off the ocean. The guard rings the bell to notify the island’s inhabitants of their princess’s return, and she groans, stretching lazily.

“Guess that means it’s time to get dressed.”

Hippolyta, resplendent in nothing but her smooth, warm skin, smiles and brushes Martha’s hair out of her eyes.

“Hippolyta?” Martha asks when her lover makes no move to get up.

“She will come to us.”

Hippolyta speaks with the confidence of a queen sure of her throne, and she doesn’t crack even when Martha’s jaw drops, preemptive mortification warming her from throat to scalp. When she tries to stand, Hippolyta simply catches her wrist. She grins when Martha loses balance, tumbling into her arms, and ducks her head to kiss her cheek, sampling her blush like it’s one of the Amazons' fine, honeyed wines.

“Hippolyta!”

“Hush.”

With one arm, Hippolyta pulls her thickly embroidered quilt to cover them both, a concession to modesty that Martha knows is only for her. She kisses her way across Martha’s face, over her eyelids and the bridge of her nose. She takes her time, lingering with each kiss, and by the time she reaches Martha’s mouth, her lips are tingling with anticipating, parted and wanting.

There are footsteps in the hallway, but Martha simply tangles a hand in her lover’s hair and pays them no attention.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! I wrote something! It was entirely inspired by BlueJay_Silvertongue's _The Sun and The Moon._ I just wanted to play around with the relationship a bit and see what would happen if Martha and Hippolyta met under (slightly) less trying circumstances.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
